Class Warfare (6 page)

… & that's what I dreamed last night, as I remembered it & wrote it down when I woke up.

Gerard Macklewain in his room strums his guitar, sings the blues:

 

Look over there, Brother

what do you think you see

Is it a man marked for death

and does he look just a bit like me?

See the man marked for death

Old Mortality
…

 

Outside it's growing light. He could sleep now, easily, but there's work to do: the accounting is incomplete. Marie Tyrell wrote, “Things get diverted, lost, broken in transit. Often you never find them again, though you search a lifetime long; it is always the same. You know the story as well as I. Hold everything, let nothing go. Never forgive, never. I have not asked you to set me free.” They shaved her head, before they led her to the Chair. Gerard Macklewain sings:

 

Play your song, Brother Death

play your old ambulance siren song

Play for the men I loved

the women I done wrong

Let me know when my time is up

Make me hustle my ass along
…

 

Anyway. He has been vouchsafed this mercy, this labour of repair. In the street a paddywagon cruises slowly, as if aimlessly. It is impossible to imagine the separation of life from the body, the radiant body, the cry cut off unuttered, the swift descent.

“… on the left side she saw a nightingale, the moaner and mourner: a kite had snatched its young—kite of hooked talons, lover of all thieving—and stood in the middle of the two-fold stem; its beak and jaws devoured the brood; and the nightingale saw it, and shrieked with a cry for her Itys, her Itys.”

I HAVE NOT answered any of the letters. Before I explain, let me say that it was a conscious decision on my part, a rational decision, not to answer them: I was prepared to take full responsibility for what I was not doing. I wrote several memos to that effect, in triplicate, to the several echelons; I expressed myself in clear, careful English, in prose. In these I stated firmly that my initiative, in not answering the letters, should be considered an extension of, not a departure from, company policy. It was not to be interpreted, however charitably, as an oversight; it was not a question of negligence, or ennui, or accidia, or insufficient motivation; it was not a failure (on my part) to identify adequately with corporate goals; and it was not, strictly speaking, a “job action.” I pointed out, further, that it was certainly not a matter of having other, more interesting or important, things to do. For a variety of reasons, I cited Patrick Henry's immortal words, the scourge of tyranny, the comfort of desperate men. At this time it was the beginning of the rainy season.

There have been a great many letters. At first, when I was ambitious, I filed them neatly in five compartments, one for each of the obvious categories: (1) Condolence, (2) Congratulations, (3) Recriminations, (4) Importunities, and (5) Advice. Eventually, after much thought, I was able to streamline the system by reducing the number of categories to four, meanwhile shifting the emphasis from “content” to “origin”: (1) Friends, (2) Enemies, (3) Representatives of Small Businesses, and (4) Family. A few of my associates remarked, unfortunately within earshot, that my method was fundamentally naïve; others said only that it betrayed, in certain respects, a degree of naïveté. I bore these criticisms patiently, with dignity, making no effort to refute them; for this forbearance I was greatly praised. After a fortnight, I abandoned the system.

In the early days of the rainy season, I composed a memo in which I argued, among other propositions, that randomness is the true order of the physical world, that “time” is by nature an agglutinative process, and that the hypothesis of God could be confirmed, evidentially, by the fact that while no one was ever observed replacing the toilet paper in the executive washroom, nonetheless there was always an abundant supply of toilet paper. I suggested that, although the standard commentaries on I Corinthians unaccountably beg the question, a progressive theology can scarcely afford not to come to terms with it. “In the end,” I wrote, “we shall have to come to terms with everything.” I directed this memo to the middle and upper echelons, only.

A copy of the memo was duly returned to me, from what I suspected was one of the middle echelons, with the following annotation: “It may indeed be true that no one has yet seen anyone in the act of replacing the toilet paper, but how do you explain the fact that the light fixture in that same executive washroom has been functionally inoperative for the past seven (7) weeks, and no one has undertaken to replace
it?
”

The letters continued to accumulate, unanswered. I read them all slowly, attentively, cherishing each word, the occasional felicitous phrase, the whimsical vagaries of punctuation, spelling, stance. Often I could not restrain a chuckle. “Life,” I thought at such times. “Ah yes, life.” One day at lunch hour I bought a paperweight in the shape of a stuffed Pekingese, and thereafter kept the choicest of the letters under it. This somewhat enhanced my prestige, within my own echelon: it was recognized that I was becoming, at last, a “personality.”

Some pertinent facts, empirical observations, may be called for here. It must be said, for example, that the language of the letters was in all instances entirely congruous with the subject matter. That is: ire was conveyed in irate language, enthusiasm in enthusiastic language, and so on. I noticed, too, that correct postage had been applied to the envelopes (in the customary place) in all but a negligible percentage of cases; the exceptions could be presumed to be the work of children, recent immigrants from underdeveloped nations (those, perhaps, without a postal system of their own), or wilful eccentrics. In that period the official mailing code was still in its infancy, and I made no attempt to compute how often it was used, or how accurately. That will be the task, if it becomes necessary, for the lower echelons.

I will not deny that, at the outset, my decision worried me slightly, chiefly on ethical grounds: to decline to act, where action is normatively demanded, is to invite ambiguity, the disruptive element, into the familiar dispensation of things. I was aware of that. I understood that I was, as a consequence, leaving myself open to a number of allegations: that I was, in fact, a “dissident influence,” that I lacked “team spirit,” that I was imperfectly “oriented” toward my “role-expectations.” It was apparent that my colleagues would have to rethink their original evaluation of my “profile.” In those weeks, early in the rainy season, I spent a great deal of time (admittedly at company expense) in front of the washroom mirror, repeating helpful homilies. “Stick to your guns, Kid,” I exhorted myself. “Fight the good fight, Lad,” I said. “History will absolve you, Buster.” It was very reassuring, to consider that History would, after all, absolve me. I discovered, as well, that certain “pet” names, applied to myself, had an immediate and regenerative effect on my morale. When I called myself Kid, or Lad, or Buster (or, for variety, Chum, Buddyboy, Old Son, or Ralph), I felt at once infused with competence. I had only to utter these names, and competence shone round about me.

I let it be known, to all who enquired, that I was willing to “face the music” in the matter of the letters. The music played and played. The principal instruments seemed to be harpsichord, clavichord, oboe, cello, saxophone, and electric bass. I affected a courtly, upright posture, in the manner of David Niven in
My Man Godfrey,
and let my hair grow past the regulation length. Cognizance, I may say, was taken of this. I began to compose poems, in a primitive mode, on the subject of rain. Late in the rainy season, I took a mistress.

I rehearsed the following statements, with which to articulate my position (if it came to that):

1. “Life is real, life is earnest, and its end is not the grave.”

2. “Strike while the iron is hot.”

3. “Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.”

4. “Moreover it is reasonable that things which share in a common nature and are counted as one, should not be altogether without relation to one another.”

5. “To the confusion of our enemies.”

Later I rehearsed the following peroration, to be recited solemnly, at the right time, to the accompaniment of drums:

“Some of us were not killed outright. Some of us were dismembered slowly, over a period of weeks. Others were subjected to a multiplicity of tortures, as follows: The North American Telephone Torture, The Radio City Music Hall Torture, The Neo-Dada Mixed-Media Total Environment Torture. Despite extreme provocation, no one cracked. Tomaso Albinoni did not crack. Domenico Cimarosa did not crack. Benedetto Marcello did not crack. My dear Johann Pachelbel did not crack. Civility was maintained, precariously, despite extreme provocation. There remained time for reflection, for serious thought, for memories limpid, lucid as rain. I tried to remember what it had been like, when I was young and handsome, standing in luxurious rooms, drinking cocktails. The women in their little black dresses, their cultured pearls. The beautiful women, with their cultured voices, mascara, well-kept hands holding martinis, Manhattans, daiquiris, old-fashioneds, black Russians, in softly carpeted rooms. And the talk, the graceful talk of investments, dividends, worldly things. When I was young and handsome, on my way up, and sportive. When everyone was married. Farewell to Nova Scotia, the fogbound coast. Let your mountains dark and dreary be.”

As things turned out, I was given no opportunity, or reason, to perform this recitation. I did, however, have a number of copies made, clandestinely, for distribution among the echelons.

Toward the end of the rainy season, things began to happen which gradually convinced me that, whatever their corporate obligations, my associates were resolved to form a “united front” on my behalf. Intimations were made to this effect. One of the office girls, Shirley, made a little box, decorated with semi-precious stones, to hold my favourites among the letters. One of the liaison people, Frank Oppenhopper, offered to “put in a word” for me, “upstairs.” In due course I was permitted to see a memo, from the uppermost echelon, directing the “grapevine” to spare me any “scuttlebutt.” I was invited to participate in a consciousness-raising; subsequently I was asked, cordially, to join a Group. The letters were not mentioned.

I have every confidence, now, that the issue will be allowed to die down—to become, in time, a dead issue. There have been suggestions that I apply for a transfer, within the company, to a more “productive” sector. Material incentives have been spoken of; fringe benefits have been discussed. It is subtly flattering to realize that these conversations are taking place, and that I am, in a way, their subject. The prospects are interesting, as we say (frequently) in the company.

I have already been approached, informally, by an eminent collector of curiosities, an agent of the National Archives, and two courteous gentlemen from a distinguished private institution, making discreet enquiries regarding the letters, and my plans for their eventual disposal. I have advised interested parties to submit sealed bids, as in other transactions. Whatever profit accrues, from the sale of the letters, will of course be donated to the charity of my choice. (I may reserve the price of a bottle of bourbon, for my associates.) The company assures me that this action is perfectly acceptable to the upper echelons, and is in any event not within its jurisdiction, technically speaking. Independence is encouraged here, in the decision-making sphere.

The rainy season is drawing to an end. I have cut my hair to the regulation length. I know now that I will never be David Niven, but I am not dismayed. My mistress, Dolores, has luminous grey eyes and exquisite breasts; we are reading Dante together, in the original, in bed. My peers are generous in their commendations. I am happy. When the letters are gone, at last, I shall use the jewelled box to store cufflinks, tie-tacks, commemorative medals, and other memorabilia.

MOST OF HIS MAIL, these days, is fan mail. People keep inviting him to dinner, fishing for secrets, for
his
secret especially. Strangers wave at him, pretty girls beckon and blush, in the streets. He smiles benignly. In the company of friends, he affects to be embarrassed by this attention, or to disdain it: “How little they realize.” He orders rounds of beer, asks difficult questions, awaits familiar answers. “When are you going to do it?” he asks. “When are you going to get off your ass and finish it?” Everyone knows what he means; everyone looks away. The jukebox is playing a song of the period, something about clean country air, innocent lovin', the Simple Things. He is acquainted, conversant, with the Simple Things. He, too, has sat before a pine fire, toasting marshmallows, thinking placid thoughts. “We may fancy ourselves intellectuals,
artistes
,” he says, “but we are not for that reason excused from action. When the day comes, we shall not be exempt. Remember what Socrates said.” Everyone remembers, gratefully, what Socrates said.

He is having supper tonight with the Empress of India. They will fry prawns in exotic sauces; the table will be set with linen, rough-textured stoneware, candles, dried reeds in a brass bowl. They will drink a virtuous red wine, in moderation, sniffing the bouquet critically; he will tell her, not without irony, about his childhood, his first car, his early sexual terror, now happily abated. “What an oaf I was,” he will say, reminiscently. Later, he will play his guitar for her. There will be muffled applause, cries of “Bravo!” and “Wow!” The sun will set discreetly, behind the grape arbour; elsewhere the moon will rise. Everything will partake of the sweetness of life.

Today, he is expansive, in expectation of pleasure, the evening's wine and music, the tender ladies. Among the proletariat, he shines. The proletariat seem not to notice. He takes this indifference, sometimes, as an affront, a breach of manners; even now, it hurts. “Have I not done enough?” he complains. “What have I failed to do?” He leans confidentially across the table. “Everything that lives is holy, but some things are holier than other things. I know at which door to take off my shoes, at which to leave them on.” His friends nod, as if in assent. They also have known the sweetness of life.
This young man will go far,
they are thinking. They understand that he is always going somewhere, to do something. They understand that the Empress of India will not be kept waiting.

What matters, of course, is the maintenance of harmony. He is not beyond greasing the gears, if the machine falters. Mere sloppiness offends him, confutes the proper deployment of things in nature. “A tree is never sloppy,” he likes to say. “If the beasts of the field had needed the vacuum-cleaner, they would have invented it.” No one doubts the perspicacity of this.

The Empress of India pours tea, delicately, from a well-wrought urn. “When I attained enlightenment,” she tells him, “I was sitting under an acacia tree, freaking. The air was full of sulphur dioxide and ash. I was thinking about cause and effect, in the matter of chicken pox: does the itch generate the scratch, or the scratch the itch? That was my koan, after a fashion. Three ducks were floating on the pond, in perfect formation. I was wearing my sea-green robe, and my hair was spread luxuriant around me. At that moment, nothing anywhere was flawed. Ah, the vanity of the material world, the vanity, before I was enlightened.”

There are other options. He is addressing his public, in a gazebo: “It is possible to savour the experience of conversion for its own sake. Merely to stand transfixed, in the luminous instant, is often enough. In Honolulu, quite suddenly, all the women ran down to the sea. The leis were still bright, still fragrant, around their gleaming shoulders.
Aieee!
they cried out.
Oh! Aieee! Aieee!
Such things are not vouchsafed freely, in the material world; they do not come in like the morning tide, faithfully, on schedule. Patience is demanded: patience and diligence, the unglamorous sisters. No one requires that the linden be compassionate, that the asphalt aspire to godliness. No one censures our great Mother, the sea, for slapping at the recalcitrant shore. We perceive now that woman will seek her own, like unto like, in her own good time.
Do not be afraid.
At the apex of rapture, there is neither Form nor Content. One day there will be enough love. One day we shall unite all the contradictions, all the dissonances, in love.”

Another day, he is having his hair styled, in a room of mirrors, accusing lights, softly whirring voices. As he works, the stylist talks steadily, through his superb teeth; his hands make practised, articulate gestures. “Have you known the sweetness of life, can you remember it? Have you danced to the gentle strains of Pachelbel, in the stilly night? Have you loitered till dawn in waterfront bars, contemplating the mythic sailors who never appear? Have you ever wanted to be an antelope? a goldfish? My heart lusts constantly after equilibrium, a stasis amidst the flux; I have conducted feasibility studies in this field, with discouraging results. As a child I was considered precocious, because I ventured to say aloud what other children had the tact, or guile, to keep to themselves. Small noises, flutterings in the dark, appalled me, then as now.
Angel wings,
my mother called them, when the creepies came. These days I have set myself a discipline: to detach myself, rigorously, from the mysteries of the body. Yet I am not at peace. Something always intrudes. A goldfish's memory lasts longer in warm water than in cold; of man, it may be that the reverse is true. Herennius, the Sicilian, showed signs of madness and was confined by his friends; determined to thwart them, he beat his brains out against a post.”

The telephone rings; he answers. A sinister whisper speaks: “Whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth.
Prudential Life, New York Life, Mutual Life, Metropolitan Life, Sun Life, Equitable Life, A.T.&T., I.T.&T., Atlantic Richfield, Continental Oil, Standard Oil, Mobil Oil, Imperial Oil, Sinclair Oil, Royal Dutch Shell, Phillips Petrol, American Can, American Express, American Airlines, American Smelting, Pan American, National Distillers, National Biscuit, National Cash Register, International Paper, Coca-Cola
…” It goes on and on. He hangs up, obscurely discomfited.

Slowly, slowly, the Empress of India winds toward him, her eyes an invitation. In a far room, someone is dancing a minuet, someone is smoking hashish, the candles are flickering. A cigarette butt drifts forlornly in a half-filled goblet.
Hold this moment, let it stay with you a long time.
The Empress of India says, “In my dream of the world, we were never called upon to defend ourselves. Day shifted confidently into night, again into day, like a Lamborghini in passage, while we slept. It was a world of expertise and fine machinery, a complaisant element. Occasions were fluid, as we moved in them. We walked once in a Japanese garden, minutely apart, in the calm of a summer's evening, savouring what was there to be savoured. Stone lanterns, immaculate pebbles, shrubbery artfully bent. A small man, skin like dried fruit, was tending something, seriously, at a distance. What were you saying to me? Why was I not listening? Tradition shone in the air, alien light glinting through an archway (as I understood it), striking still water. Yes, there were goldfish in the pool, and other species. The noise of traffic was indistinguishable from wind, the conversation of large indigenous trees, the scraping of unaccustomed sandals on gravel paths, as we strolled together. And I was happy, I was then entirely happy, without thought.”

In his mind, he is saying to her, “There are worse things to remember than happiness, if such it was. We walked in a Japanese garden, beside the languid water, and I was young and strong and full of passion. I was not yet detached from the material life, the manifest world. Nor am I now, though I pretend otherwise. Your body in the twilight appeared to me as drapery, the costliest of fabrics, voluptuous as amber in a green bowl. Gossamer hung on your hips, your magnificent thighs; I could not forbear to praise you. Oh, oh, the sweetness of life, that has such visions in it. Your lips moved as if in speech, but you said nothing.”

Do you know the song now? Do you recall the words? Never mind, chances are no one is listening. Yet. Now it is only a stridency of guitars, triumphant, somewhere down a hallway. Along this perspective a door may open, or it may not. And if it does, what will come raging through? There are things he is powerless to anticipate: irruptions, incursions, blind processes of history,
things.
He is going somewhere, to do something, but there are turnings he cannot foresee, from this vantage. Suppose—

—
Suppose that one night we go out driving together in the rain, out of the city, out through the lowlands, marshlands, industrial flatlands, out past the chemical factories and refineries, military reserves, television towers, wrecking yards, across rivers of effluent, down boggy vastnesses streaked with powerlines, pipelines, all that complicated pasta of roadways, freeways, pavement blue as steel under mercury light, the trusty Chevy spinning along, patient buzz of moving parts, Pachelbel on the radio, and the two of us trying to carry the tune, out of key: until, at some unremembered intersection, some exit no map prepared us for, entered upon so swiftly, helplessly, that there's no time to scream OH NO or JESUS, or to bargain, plead, change heart, change gears, then
—

Well, just suppose. Meanwhile in his safe house he will stand at a window, with his true love, hearing percussion: congas, spoons, tambourines, clear girlish voices singing Alleluia, far away. This cacophony signifies something, yes indeed, and it is coming closer.
Hold on, hold on
. He, for his part, will hold on. The Empress of India extends a pale hand, traces his spine; the flesh is pliant. “Come the Revolution,” she says, “all this will be swallowed up, it will all be consumed. We have been exempt too long. You and I will fall, our beauty torn and discarded like Kleenex after a virus: and who will rescue us? It is late, late for an act of Grace, were one ever thinkable, and I am more tired than you suspect. I have considered soberly, in my way, the efficacy of love, but have come to no opinion. In the circumstances, that may be all for the best. Those who come after us will never taste, they will never tell stories, of the sweetness of life.”